Hemorrhage
by crazyevildru
Summary: Spike is thinking about "the Gift"


SUMMARY: Spike angsts on Buffy's demise.  
  
RATING: PG14  
  
PAIRING: Spike POV, he wishes it were Buffy/Spike  
  
SPOILERS: "the Gift"  
  
FEEDBACK: PLEASE! It means SOOOO much! PLEASE PLEASE!  
  
DISCLAIMER: Joss Whedon owns the characters. I'm just abusing them for a while.  
  
DISTRIBUTION: Organized Insanity (http://www.geocities.com/crazyevildru/index.htm), otherwise ask me  
  
  
  
-Hemorrhage-  
  
  
  
He sits and wonders if the stains will fade in a hundred years, in a thousand. A million? Ever? Wonders if he should burn it or bury it or just leave it in some random place in an effort to keep her alive. Perhaps if he sets it on a bench in the mall and walks away, he can trick himself into thinking that she's somewhere. Laughing. Walking in the mall with her friends.  
  
Wonders if it would do any bit of difference at all in his mind. Wonders why he stole it. Still wonders if the stains will ever fade. Or if he'll ever be able to look at his hands and not see her blood.  
  
Walks around at night absently, just wandering, not doing much of anything. And when he gets back, it's still laying where he left it. As if he expected to find it gone or missing. As if by leaving it behind, he can escape it. Instead of being trapped with the creeping death he feels and the memories of the words he begged of her.  
  
***********  
  
He falls and bleeds. He looks up to see the portal opening. "NOOOOOOO!" He screams because he knows he's failed. Dawn will die. He killed h-  
  
He sees feet. Four feet. The Slayer. She'll make it right. She'll save them all. She'll- "BUFFY! NOOOOOOOOOO!" His shriek cuts the air and perhaps the sound barrier. He seems frozen as he watches her fall. Jump. Silently prays. "Don't fall away and leave me to myself." He stumbles as he tries to stand up after the sickening thud. A fallen slayer.  
  
He can't seem to stop the tears from falling, tears he didn't realize he could cry. He regains his footing. She can't be dead. Slayer is resilient. She's not dead. He tells him this, tries to reassure himself. Runs to her bleeding and broken body.  
  
Grabs her and tries to shake her. "DON'T DIE! YOU CAN'T DIE, YOU BLOODY BINT! WAKE UP!" He screams as he shakes her. He lifts her sweater and looks at the wounds where blood has been pulled out of her pores. "NO! DON'T FALL AWAY! AND LEAVE LOVE BLEEDING IN MY HANDS AGAIN!"  
  
He tries, somehow, to push the blood back in. If he can get it back inside her, perhaps she'll live again. Covers his hands with her blood while trying to push it back into her skin. Vamps out, ready to feed it back to her if he has to. She just needs to get it back. One portal couldn't take it *all*.  
  
Sinks his fangs into her neck and feels hands pulling him, yanking him away and he goes. He doesn't fight because he knows. She has no blood to be taken. Her body is without it, save what is covering her skin.  
  
"Love lies bleeding." He whispers as the sick realization of truth hits him.  
  
She cannot be saved. She will *not* be saved.  
  
***********  
  
Sits and wonders if the stains will ever fade. Clutches the sweater, as if it were his entire life. Holds it because it's the only way he knows he's alive and this is real. Holds it because he feels that death is a disease and hopes it's contagious.  
  
Wants to join her, wherever she is. Wishes that for more than just one small kiss, that she would have looked at him as something other than a vampire. Something other than the shadow of a darker, taller, undead man.  
  
He wishes she wouldn't have played martyr, just once. Wishes she would have been stronger and had let the world crumble, with all of them in it. At least they would have been together now. Wishes she hadn't found peace in death. Wishes she would have felt better about life. That she might have felt like she was more than just a pawn in someone else's game. That she might have felt like more than just a dead actor with vacant lines in some movie, black and white. Wishes she might have known his love, if only for once second.  
  
Wishes she might have heard his cries, over and over again.  
  
Sits and holds the sweater, wishing for death, silently praying that he will wake up. Silently begging. "Don't fall away and leave me to myself. Don't fall away and leave love bleeding in my hands, in my hands again. Leave love bleeding in my hands. In my hands, love lies bleeding."  
  
He wanted so much that she turned away from duty, from slayerness, from everything. He sits, rocking the sweater, running his hand over where her breast would be, closing his eyes, trying to imagine he's in a different time with a different sweater. One that's not covered in blood.  
  
But he can't remember a time like that. He can't imagine. He can't *anything*.  
  
He takes the knife and presses his finger to the tip. Sharp. Pricks his finger and watches the blood pool in the cut and drip onto the sweater. Presses his finger again, harder. More blood falls.  
  
Wonders, if he bleeds himself dry, whether he will combust. Cuts his wrist, just a slice. Shallow cuts. Watches the blood seep out slowly, not fast enough. Wants to fall away. Wants to leave himself.  
  
He cuts deeper. To the bone. Watches the blood gush out and starts to wonder if the demon will allow itself to bleed. Wonders, for the first time, if he *can* bleed. If he can die. Wants to fall away. Looks at his hands and sees the blood dripping on them, flowing down from his veins onto the sweater, his jeans, the floor, the bench… smears it over his arms and then takes his shirt off. Smears the blood over his stomach, like hers was and tries to imagine what it felt like for her. Falling and being torn apart.  
  
He wants to fall away and leave love bleeding. Feels weak and starts to fall, watching the blood pour out of his body. Watches as a puddle of blood forms and falls into the blood. Feels it seep through his hair and clutches the sweater, wondering if the stains will ever fade. Thankful he won't ever know.  
  
  
  
THE END 


End file.
